


the pack survives even the harshest winters

by mxash



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASOIAF Characters - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Ghost is a Good Boy (ASoIaF), GoT plot, Jon Snow is King Beyond the Wall, Jon Snow-centric, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sansa Stark is the Queen in the North, Sometimes fluffy, Starklings (ASoIaF), Toxic Relationship, also, chapter four has lesbians, i made jon tall because that's hot, idk how to really describe this but enjoy, no happy ending, sometime dark, this is gonna be a long fucking fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:42:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22420507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxash/pseuds/mxash
Summary: "𝙞 𝙨𝙥𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚 𝙞'𝙫𝙚 𝙨𝙖𝙫𝙚𝙙, 𝙞 𝙜𝙤𝙩 𝙖𝙙𝙙𝙞𝙘𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙩𝙤 𝙖 𝙡𝙤𝙨𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙚."𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲 → jon snow & sansa stark𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝘄𝗼 → lyarra stark, queen in the north ( 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙞𝙡𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙡𝙛 )𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 →minsa stark, queen of the six kingdoms ( 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙡𝙛 )𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿 → lyanne stark, lady of dragonstone and lady-consort of storm's end ( 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙤𝙧𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙣 𝙙𝙧𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣 )𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 → aryana stark, lady-consort of highgarden ( 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙙 𝙬𝙤𝙡𝙛 )𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗶𝘅 → sara stark, lady-consort of riverrun ( 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙡𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡𝙮 𝙬𝙤𝙡𝙛 )𝘁 𝗶 𝘁 𝗹 𝗲arcade - duncan laurence
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Original House Stark Character/Original House Baratheon Character, Original House Stark Character/Original House Lannister Character, Original House Stark Character/Original House Tully Character, Original House Stark Character/Original House Tyrell Character, Original House Stark Character/Wildling
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	the pack survives even the harshest winters

**Author's Note:**

> this is all inspired by my [edit account](https://www.instagram.com/mxash.xiv/).  
> also, i'm sorry if there are any spelling mistakes; i tried to find them all but i don't know if i did.  
> tell me if you find any; that would be greatly appreciated.  
> 

* * *

**loving you is a losing game** _  
_ jon & sansa

* * *

**_jon_ **

jon had sat in the lord’s chambers, hands ringing in his nervousness. he hadn’t seen sansa in a little over four moons and yet it’d seemed longer then all of time, itself. and, despite everything, he’d missed her. he may have been angry, may have felt betrayed, may have even blamed her for many of his misfortunes – but he’d missed her none the less.

he couldn’t stop it.

just as he hadn’t been able to stop it whilst in dragonstone. just as he hadn’t been able to stop it in all their years apart.

half of him had hated himself for it, telling himself that she was a traitor to the _rightful queen_ , and to him. half of him had hated her, thought her responsible her for daenerys’ choices; the other half had longed for her company, his last tangible bond to _home_.

home as it should be.

the door had opened and sansa had walked in strides into the ornate apartments. from where he sat in the grand seat by the heath, he could hear her skirts sway against her legs and her heeled boots stomp against the stone floor. he could hear the brief sigh that had trailed from her lips as she’d unpinned her intricate braids, freeing the auburn hair that he’d so admired. he could hear the gasp that had escaped her as she’d suddenly stopped in her tracks, seemingly spotting him.

“jon?” she’d whispered, cautiously.

he’d stood, “your grace.”

their short time apart had only made her beauty grow richer - sansa had gawked at him in her shock. her hair had looked longer, falling in ringlets to her hips, her ice-blue eyes seeming brighter, her skin glowing in the low candlelight – queenship agreed with her. the gown she’d worn had been tight about her torso, lacking the armour she’d taken to wearing during winter, and skirts flowing about her towering legs.

she’d smiled subtly at the sight of him, her slight laugh so full of mirth, “my god, you look like shit.”

jon had breathed a chuckle, half-stunned by her loose tongue, glancing down at the wildlings garbs he’d been clad in. “i apologise, majesty; perhaps i should have–”

the words had died in his throat when sansa had launched forward suddenly and pulled him into a tight embrace, clinging to him firmly. it’d been all too instinctual to wrap his arms about her taunt waist and hold her close to his chest, face burying itself in her long tresses, _kissed-by-fire_.

like ygritte.

like daenerys.

like home.

“i have missed you,” she’d exhaled against his throat, arms clutching at his neck. “gods, i have missed you.” her words had only caused his hold to become more desperate, his knuckles flushing a bright ivory with its strength. “it has been agony; tis so very lonely here without _you_ here.”

then, he’d pulled from her abruptly, glancing down at her face with all its soft features, glowing with joy. “i cannot stay long, i _must_ leave at first light.” he stayed in her embrace, because it had been all too easy to, despite the sudden lose of mirth.

“of course, you can,” her ocean eyes, glazed with confusion, raced between his own deep greys. “greyworm and his men will surely be dead by now; naath is infected by poisonous butterflies of which only the locals are immune – they can’t have survived long. you have no one to appease; you _can_ stay.”

then he had pulled from her arms, though his head had cried out at the lack of her warmth. “doesn’t mean i should; sansa, this is not about _appeasing_ anyone, tis about penance for my sins.”

sansa had rolled her eyes, he’d excused it as subconscious. “you can’t honestly believe what you did was wrong; jon, you killed a tyrant atop a dragon – only the gods know what she was capable of. _you_ stopped that, they should have praised you, not–”

“they should have cut off my head!” he’d bellowed and sansa had closed her mouth, her expression swiftly turning to that of scorn, her mere gaze causing his skin to burn in his discomfort. “i killed _my_ queen, i shouldn’t be alive but i am; that is mercy so i cannot disobey it in contempt.”

“then what am i? am i not your queen? _you are_ _northern,_ are you not? or did you truly leave winterfell king in the north and return a southern fool?” he spotted the tears brewing in her eyes from where they’d shone in the candlelight.

his heart throbbed.

with river-blue eyes surrounded by a sea of blood-red, sansa groaned in frustration. “is it so that she murdered an entire city and she is still more worthy to you than myself?”

a pregnant silence had passed between them, sansa holding his gaze. a thousand things had gone unsaid amongst them, her body slumping over in her hurt as he’d hung his head in shame.

her face had shattered in her upset as tears freely fell, burning streaks down her ivory cheeks. “really?” her voice hadn’t been as powerful as it had been before, but vulnerable and strained – body seemingly almost falling limp. “i thought– _stupidly_ i thought that you might have some decency left in you, but it seems that jon snow is all but lost and replaced with this– with this– with this targaryen imposter! so if that is how you wish to go on then i want no part in it. i do not wish to see you because i cannot watch you wallow in your own misery any longer. you need to understand that it is unforgivable what she _chose_ to do, she was not forced, she was not fighting for what was right. she was not innocent!”

jon had glanced up at her, her gaze almost as pained as hers.

she’d spoken the truth, but he could not wonder if it had been all due to _daenerys’ choice._ his mind had flashed over all the times sansa had spoken of her hatred for daenerys, even before they’d left for kingslanding – he could never truly understand why. he’d speculated that she simply had not trusted her, protective of her beloved north, but a far more foolish part of him had whispered that there had been another, slightly more trivial reason for her coolness.

“and yet you act as if she was some pious martyr–”

he’d scoffed, tempted to test his theory. “oh, and you are?”

“what?”

“a _pious martyr_ ; is that not how you’re acting? a woman wronged.” he moved a little closer to her, towering over her in his great height. “you were jealous of her,” he accused, his voice that off meek confidence.

she stepped back, “why would i be jealous of a murderous whore?”

“and what of before?” his voice was low and predatory, “why would you hate her so much if it were not for that?”

sansa remained silent, her head high and he saw the tears that had stained her cheeks.

“she told me of that little conversation you’d had,” he’d pointed as he’d cornered her against her desk, finger pressed against her chest. “ _had it bothered you_?”

“i don’t know what you’re implying.”

“oh, don’t fain innocence now, sansa,” his finger retreated, and she’d appeared disappointed by the subtle pout of her lips as her eyes had tracked the digit. “you were bothered by her because she intimidated you; all i wish to know is, for what reason?”

her eyes had swiftly met the floor and then met his gaze once again, her voice all too soft and uneasy. “i was not intimidated, i was trying to keep the north’s independence, i was trying to protect my home from dragon fire.”

“you think i would allow–”

“you did.” she spat. “and, what are you trying to prove? that i felt i was a woman scorned, lusting after my bastard-brother? that i hated your lover because i had some demented–”

“i said nothing,” he said smugly.

“you said everything!” she rebuffed, and he had been so close to her that he could feel her breath, hot as dragon-fire, against his skin. “you truly are a–”

suddenly, he’d kissed her, teeth clashing against hers in a fierce embrace – he didn’t know what else to do.

he’d thought she might refuse him, and she had every right – it had been brutish of him and his touch had been rough. but, as if it were an instinct, sansa wrapped a hand about his neck, nails digging into his jaw, holding his mouth to hers as their lips had softened. her mouth had battled for dominance against his own, open beneath his own as his arms coiled tight about her midriff, fingers toying with the laces of her gown.

the kiss was savage, filled with teeth and tongue. his hands held her hips to the desk as they pushed against his groin, relishing in her small gasp against his mouth at the feel of his harshness.

jon had pulled away for gasp at air, panting as he pressed his forehead to hers. he watched as her chest rose and fell, her eyes half-closed as a hand came to caress her cheek. his thumb ghosted over her kiss-swollen lips and her mouth had opened, biting at the tip of his finger.

 _stop,_ his mind had ordered, but he hadn’t the will nor the desire.

a small part of him wanted to stop this madness, to continue their quarrel with this new realisation – but, in truth, he hadn’t the strength nor the determination. instead, his mouth had latched onto her neck and suckled at the sensitive skin of her throat, causing her to gasp his name – half in pleasure, half in warning – and hurl her head back. her hands had tugged at his raven curls, teeth tugging at his ear.

his lips traced her throat, leaving faint pink marks that would surely bruise a wrathful crimson come tomorrow, until he was met where her high collar met in the middle. he glanced up at her and saw her staring down at him, chest heaving and mouth parted, and with that her hands met his at her laces, both desperate to untie the stubborn strings. soon, the dress came loose about her and he pushed the garment down her shoulders, hearing it tear as they dragged it down her hips and watched it pool at the floor.

urgently, he sat her atop the writing desk, meeting her keen mouth in an all-consuming kiss as his hands roamed her body, her skin only guarded by her stern corset and meek linen shift. he stood in the cradle of her thighs, unruly palms travelling between her legs as she pushed off his furs and wildling rags until he stood in nothing but his makeshift breeches.

the breath caught in her throat as his thumb pressed against her smallclothes, biting his lip as he moved the digit in orbit. she pulled from his kiss, looking up at him as a hand pressed against his bare chest, marred by scars. “i shan’t have you have your way with me and then desert me,” her voice had been a hoarse whisper, a hypnotic melody. “i am a queen.”

jon had panted a breath, grey eyes desperate to uphold his most earnest sentiments. “i can’t stay,” he’d spoken only the truth; he could not lie to her – _not here, not now_.

she leaned forward ever so subtly, thumb caressing the scar atop his heart. “but you shall return, won’t you?” the whisper had been hopeful, her gaze fluttered between his eyes and mouth.

his only answer was to kiss her, a kiss he’d hoped might soothe her – a silent promise – as his hand resumed its efforts between her thighs. she sighed at his touch; hands tight about his neck as she’d held him against her – as though she worried that he might slip away if she had not.

he’d found himself impatient, longing for the feel of her. he’d bitten her lip as his hand reached for her smallclothes, tugging at them so hard that the silk had torn so that he may free her of the fabric; sansa had gasped at the feel of it. her fingers toyed with the crude laces of his breeches, slowly pulling for them to loosen, as his own explored between her legs, earning slight sighs and lengthy moans from the queen. his lips trailed down her throat, teeth sinking into the flesh at her collarbone and nipping at the meat of her breast that had spilt over the top of her corset.

jon had felt drunk off it all – the feel of her, her wanton desire, his reckless need. he _should_ have felt ashamed but, after everything, he couldn’t find the will. she had been everything he’d never known he’d needed, and as he’d watched her peak run through her that first time, he knew he _couldn’t_ stop.

he _should_ stop, but he _couldn’t_.

it had seemed that slight taste of paradise had yielded sansa careless, her hands desperate to free him of his wildling cloths. he had found that he had been more than willing to comply, meeting her in a wild, maddening kiss as he’d pushed into her - her whimpered cry intoxicating.

her fingers buried in his hair and legs wrapped about his hips, she leaned back, pushing over inkpots as she’d lied atop the desk, his mouth upon her neck. she’d held him close to her, full breasts pressed to his bare chest with such pressure it neared painful, hair spilt about her head like a halo of blood.

she had panted against his ear as she’d met his thrusts, nipping at his earlobe. sweet nothings spilt from her lips, meaningless chivalries that filled his mind with such foolish hope. he’d wanted to return to her, to repeat this sinful dance again and again until he grew tired of breath; her touch had been enchanting – sure to cure him of desperate thirst and impatient hunger; he may be eternally sated by sin and shame and sansa.

that night had been filled by their wild passions until they had both found themselves gorged atop her bed. and, as the sun rose, jon had lied with his head atop sansa breast, her breath hot against his temple and her fingers toying with a lone, raven curl – both silent, both bare.

it hadn’t been an awkward or shameful silence, but one of peace and harmony. for the first time in _too_ long, jon discovered himself a man consumed by bliss, a man with a mind so full of sweet melodies that he hadn’t the time to think of anything else. and, as the sun beat down upon their skin, he glanced up at her and found that she had been gazing at him, her face without worry or disgrace.

he reached to press a kiss to her throat, earning a sweet sigh from the she-wolf, before he’d pulled her into a demanding kiss, desperate to engrave the sweetness of her lips into the stone of his memory. his hands roamed in their endeavours; one settling at her hip and another atop her teat, she gasped.

“jon,” she’d breathed against his lips, “tis sunrise; my maids shall surely be arriving soon.”

“i wish it were not,” he’d groaned between kisses, “i wish we could stay here for an eternity and more, and never care for anything but one and other again.”

sansa giggled as though she were a girl again, “ _an eternity and more,_ how very hopeful of you, lord commander.”

he chuckled, glad to see her so full of delight. “what, majesty? you think me not capable?”

“no,” she’d answered cheerfully.

with one swift motion, she was upon of him, straddling his hips and sitting high above him like a wild nymph atop her stallion. and, as she gazed down at him, ice-blue eyes piercing, he’d noticed himself gawking at her. he’d known that he would never tire of her – her look, her warmth, her smile, her biting comments, her coy moans.

“i think us responsible,” sansa had said as his hands had wandered the silk of her skin. she leaned down ever so slightly, her crimson tresses like a drape about them, “you mustn’t forget, i am a queen – a queen who must care for her people and–”

“and a queen that must marry,” his smile had fallen as the thought had overtaken him.

her lips had parted as the corners of her mouth dropped into a glum frown, glancing down to the hand that was caught at his nude hip. “that too,” she’d whispered.

he pushed to sit, an arm about her waist, a hand brushing her hair over top her shoulder so that he may press a kiss to the glowing flesh there. “did you know that when a wildling wishes to take a bride, he steals her?”

she shook her head.

“tis true, he takes her from her home and clan and declares her his wife,” he said, a finger floating feather-light across her skin.

she grinned subtly, “is that not what the same as us _civilised_?”

jon breathed a chuckle; then, he cupped her face between his palms, catching a few auburn strands between his fingers. “so, is it not true that we might be married?”

her head cocked to the side, eyebrowed furrowed. “what do you mean?”

“that i would be your husband and you would be my wife, if not by law then in spirit.”

she smiled; a smile that set his heart alight. “so, _husband_ , you shall return?”

jon nodded.

* * *

winter had been long and hard. fighting between the clans had worsened by the day and tormund’s drunken ramblings hadn’t done much to ease his spirits. sansa had been his only haven; he thought of his queen-wife most every night, imagined what he might say to her when he returned, imagined what may have changed, what truths she might tell.

a year after the first night, he found himself inside her rooms, settling in the same chair before the heath as he had then. he’d been earlier that day; the sun had scarcely then set, and the moon had not yet made the wolves howl – but he had been far too impatient, far too wicked to think of anything else but this night.

it was then that he heard a babe cry, a strong and healthy cry – that of a new-born with vigorous lungs, a sound he had not heard since he was a boy. his head rose with a shot and he saw a candle flicker in the next room over, and so he stood, and his feet carried him there, seemingly of their own accord.

_had it been…?_

it had.

a babe laid wailing in the bassinet at the centre of the room, unattended – his legs carted him closer and he observed a babe with raven curls and porcelain skin. the infant’s eyes broke open and revealed a striking pair of ice-blue eyes, a gaze that he would surely know anywhere, even if his veins ran cold and skin turned to ash.

 _no!_ _it couldn’t be._

certainly, he must have just been imagining the sight – a vision from the gods sent to taunt him. his mind raced for another explanation; despite his shock, he reached and picked the babe from the crib – to be sure it had been palpable, and not simply a cruel hallucination.

to his surprise, the child had quietened as he had held it against his chest, nestling into his wildling skins, small fingers curling about the tie of his shirt. and, in spite of himself, jon had found that he had smiled at the spectacle – holding the child close.

the feeling that flowered in his chest, he’d imagined lord stark had felt the same when he held his children close for the first time. it’d been a strange sense of joy, one without reservation or shame – but that of pure glee.

“her name’s lyarra.”

all of a sudden, he turned and was met with the sight of his lovely sansa shifting towards him – moving as though she walked on air. her hair had been longer and her figure fuller; her waist as taunt as ever, and as the babe squealed in delight, he stood in disbelief at the image of her.

“lyarra _stark_ ,” she insisted once she’d stood before him, lifting a hand to stroke the girl’s dark mane, watching the child squirm to grasp at her.

he let out a shaky breath, “your child?”

“ _our_ child,” she said, glancing up at him.

_of course._

within the deep, hidden, wicked recesses of his kind, he had known that the moment he’d seen the child: known she had been _his_ child, but he hadn’t wanted to admit it. he had been a man sworn to celibacy, a man who vowed to never hold his child within the stronghold of his arms.

he’d hated himself for the fact that the mere thought had brought him so much joy.

“you are sure?”

she cocked her head, her hand coming to grasp his cheek, her hold as tender and as soft as he’d recalled. “there have been no others.”

jon smiled, “ _our child_ ,” he repeated, testing the words on his tongue. “a stark?”

she nodded, “i was sure of that, as sure that she will be my heir – a gift from the gods to reign over all the north.”

he kissed her then, a hand shifting to clasp her neck as her own framed his bearded jaw, grinning against his lips. it’d been sweet; she’d bitten his lip as they’d pulled apart, pressing their foreheads together, her breath hot against his mouth.

he’d never known his grin to have been so large and full of delight, saying in a soft murmur, “how long i have waited to be here with you and it is more perfect than i could have ever imagined.”

“how long i have waited to see her in your arms, to hold you within my own.” she leaned back, meeting his grey gaze, her expression awfully serious. “jon, i– i…”

_i love you._

“i know,” he whispered, “and i you, forever and always.”

they’d spent that night in the comfort of each other’s arms, their daughter between them until the babe had drifted to sleep and left in her cot. they’d found their comforts and laid together till morning bloomed.

jon pressed his mouth to her temple, her head leant against his bare chest. “you know that i must leave again?”

she glanced up at him, her expression had been that of calm acceptance as she’d pressed her lips against the scar atop his heart. “but you shall return again.”

he smiled and pressed a kiss to her mouth, a last taste of salvation before he must return to winter. as he pulled away, he met her eye, “come with me.”

he stood and sansa furrowed her brows, “jon?”

“put on your robe and come with me, majesty,” he said as he dressed in the leathers that she’d gifted him the night before.

despite her evident uncertainty, sansa smirked and rose, pulling her shift over her head and tugging her dressing gown over her shoulders. and, when he’d thought them decent enough, he’d grasped her hand, pulling her towards the solar door. “where are we going?”

“the castle is sleeping, is it not?”

she nodded.

“then i would like for you to see me off, wife.”

she breathed a smile and raced with him through the door. he’d felt as though he was a boy again as they’d sprinted through the halls of winterfell, hand-in-hand, feeling as though he might conquer the whole of westeros in his lovesick haze. to hear sansa’s giggle was to hear the sweetest song, to have sansa’s love was to have the gentlest remedy to all ills.

they’d soon found themselves in the godswood, standing before the heart tree. she looked to the wall about them, “so, this is how you get into winterfell so very easily?”

he grinned, cupping her cheeks. “tis a hard climb, but i would do it a thousand times over if i might see your face.”

sansa smirked, grasping at his wrists, “seems you have become quite the charmer, husband.”

jon had kissed her then, a hard and desperate kiss. she sighed against his frantic lips, a hand wrapping about the nape of his neck, holding him to her as she matched his dire need. her breath had scorched his skin as he pulled from her. “i must leave now or i might never again.”

“then surely you must stay,” she leant her forehead against his, “or you must return more than once a year; i cannot bare another without your arms.”

he peppered a kiss to her lips, “ _i cannot stay_ , but i shall return to you; i don’t know when, but i shall.”

“then write to me,” she said urgently, “whenever you can, write to me; i don’t care what you write, i don’t care what brings the damned thing, but _write to me_. i want to know how you fare.”

he nodded, “i shall, and you must tell me of our little lyarra; i want to know everything, dear wife.”

“oh, dear love.” sansa pulled the foreheads apart, and he saw that her eyes had flooded with tears, “how the gods have cursed us, to love as we do and to never truly belong to one and other.”

his hold about her face harden, knuckles burning white with his despair. “tis it truly a curse to know what it is like to truly love – so ardently, so completely.”

“my heart grows fonder with every passing moment,” she simpered glumly.

he felt his own gaze fog with tears, “then think of that.”

“but it isn’t enough!” she cried, “i want you here always, i want to wake in your arms every morning, i want to quarrel with you, i want to laugh with you, i want to weep with you, i want to love you, and i don’t want to see lyarra know her father as little more than a stranger. but, i am to be deprived of a life with you because of fear and pride. jon, i am tired of being scared! i am tired of feeling so very alone.”

“sansa…”

“i am so very lonely here, lyarra is all i have without you,” she professed. “with bran in the south and arya being where only the gods know, i am woman surrounded by strangers.”

the kiss he pressed to her forehead had been hard and rough, but not lacking in its affection. he could not stay – his conscience would never allow it, no matter how much he willed it to. moreover, he hadn’t wanted to cause any issues, his mind very aware of the unsettled dothraki, scarcely being kept at bay by the men in the south.

 _but_ _would it not be worth the risk?_ a dark corner of himself whispered, a tempting prompt towards his true desires.

but jon snow had never been a man compelled to follow his truest of wants.

“i’m sorry,” he whispered against her pale skin before he pulled from her.

jon hadn’t looked back as he moved towards the wall, deep within the weirwood forest; he’d known if he had, it would have shattered his fractured heart. only when he’d known he’d been out of her sight had he allowed the tears to fall, to burn deep scars across his flesh – he was a cruel, self-sabotaging man.

he was not deserved of her love.

he was not deserved of the life she offered.

but he wanted it, he wanted it _too_ much.

it frightened him how much he’d loved her, how much he loved their daughter; he’d never known such a feeling, to love so entirely. he expected nothing in return, _wanted_ nothing in return – he wanted only to love, and it seemed he could not even do that.

_a cruel, self-sabotaging man._

* * *

in the moons that came and went, jon had remained true to his word, he wrote to her – and often enough. he received few in return, he hadn’t known if it’d been due to a lack of time or sansa’s bitterness.

when she had written, she spoke of their daughter between sweet ramblings – telling of lyarra’s first laugh, first crawl and everything else. she implored him to return to her and promptly, said winterfell had been expecting him.

he came all too readily.

jon entered the gates and the queen stood to greet him and his men, surrounded by the household of winterfell. he saw their daughter, held between a wet-nurse’s arms; he saw sansa, tall and _swelled with child_.

he almost stopped dead in his tracks, only eased on by tormund’s knowing stare. and, when he stood before her, jon dropped to his knees before her as she offered her ring, her gaze far too aware as she said, “dear lord commander.”

he took her hand, pressing a kiss to the ring about her index finger, a ring made to the likeness of the direwolf that stood beside him. “majesty.”

sansa’s grin had been subtle, though her face was full of cruel mirth – it’d been so unnoticeable that he thought he may have imagined it. “do you find me much changed, dear jon?” she asked in her amusement.

“i–” the king beyond the wall had glanced down to her ballooned belly and then met her crushing gaze. “i scarcely recognised you, your grace,” he said, rising to his feet.

“is that so?” she whispered as she placed a hand atop her stomach, drawing his attention back to the swelling. she turned and took lyarra from the maid beside her, smiling as the babe squealed with glee.

he stepped closer – his daughter had been a little under a year old, and yet she’d seemed so much older than he’d remembered. her raven curls had grown to frame her delicate, slight face, her nose that of a small button and her lips like two petals – she’d had his face, it’d seemed.

a stark’s face.

“ _her name’s lyarra_ ,” sansa repeated the words she had all those months before, and he’d remembered himself.

she wasn’t his daughter; he hadn’t known her.

 _he was a stranger_.

the child eased into his touch as he caressed her cheek, “a pretty name.”

he trailed behind the queen through the grand doors of winterfell, memory flooding with biting waters as he’d stepped into the great hall. he watched sansa moved past her throne, a grand structure that had been placed atop a newly erected dais, and left the room, only sparing a parting glance.

tormund stood beside him, barking out a laugh. “if she meant to just leave, i think she might have well have just sent a crate of ice, snow.”

“she’s angry,” jon whispered, mindful of all the people surrounding him.

giantsbane merely glanced at him with an all too knowing stare, “why, snow.”

he hadn’t waited for the wildling to continue (as he would have), only following after sansa and finding himself outside the queen’s chambers. he rose a hand to knock, as he should, but he was too impatient and pushed through the threshold, regardless of the consequences that might arise.

his grey eyes surveyed the solar, finding the queen standing in the nursery, holding their babe between the fortress of her arms. hesitantly, he came to stand behind her, watching over her shoulder as the child giggled. sansa said nothing; she’d known of his presence – _she’d must have_.

“you said nothing of another child,” he whispered against her ear as she’d placed lyarra in the crib below.

sansa said nothing still, but allowed his lingering touch against her jaw, easing back against him.

“wife, why?” he’d growled as she’d gasped as his touch tightened, a shallow sound. she must have enjoyed it, his strangled desperation; no matter what, she’d been in control, and she had known it.

because all he was had belonged to her.

“tis only your touch that soothes me, husband.” she murmured, her head turned so she might meet his gaze, “and i wanted you home, with me.” her breath was hot against his mouth as she’d pressed a hand to his cheek, brushing her nose against his own.

it’d been all too sweet.

he hadn’t replied, only pressed his forehead to her temple, placing his palm across her belly. her ice-blue gaze bore into him, feeling as though it was carving his skin with their sweetness – it’d been agonising.

“do you not want me?” suddenly, she’d asked. “is that it?”

“sansa, how could you be so–”

“what?” she’d uttered, turning in his hold. “i think it perfectly rational. you will not stay because of foolishness; there must be something. is there another? or, am i just not enough?”

“ _not enough_?” jon took her face between his hands. “sansa, you are everything.”

“i wasn’t enough to stop you from leaving to dragonstone and i wasn’t enough to stop you with daenerys,” her eyes swelled with tears, “and now i’m not enough to make you stay with me.”

“sansa, i loved her, i did,” he confessed, watching her face shatter with hurt in the process. “but it’s different now, and it’s different with you. i love _you_ ; you– sansa, you are everything to me.”

her hands hesitantly wrapped about his wrists, “you say that and yet, you leave.”

“i would stay, if i could–”

“you can!” she’d yelled, ripping from his grip as she’d pushed past him, “how many times must i say it, write it, scream it, _you can_ stay; you _choose_ not to.”

he’d only hung his head in shame.

“is there someone else then?” she’d asked, “i’ve heard of your taste for wildlings.”

“sansa, i would never– could never, not to you."

she’d squeezed her eyes closed for a moment. “jon, all i want is a better reason for your absence than self-imposed penance, but that is all it is.”

he only nodded.

she had sighed and walked across the room to him, cupping his cheeks. he leaned into her touch, placing a palm atop her own, and despite everything, she breathed a smile. “i want– i want to give you everything you deserve because i love you – the gods help me for it.”

in spite of himself, jon chuckled.

suddenly, she’d frowned, “you don’t think you deserve much, and it breaks my heart. i know you won’t stay forever, but stay awhile?”

“sansa…” he whispered.

“please.” sansa had pleaded, a hand falling to cradle his neck. “until the babe is born, at least; the last almost took my life, i was so very frightened without you here.”

she hadn’t told him that.

the mere thought had made him grip her neck with an iron hold in his horror.

“i only ever feel truly safe when i know you’re nearby.”

jon had nodded, pressing his lips to her forehead as he’d pulled her into a tight embrace.

it had been mere weeks later when sansa had woke him during the night, screaming from her pain. he had been attempting to race off to find a wet-nurse, but she’d stopped him. “no, they’ll hear,” she’d panted, “i want you here.”

their second daughter had been born a little over half a day later. he had never seen sansa glow as brightly as she had in that moment, the moment they’d laid the child in her arms – a child with bright auburn curls and ice-blue eyes.

_the tully look._

_sansa’s look._

“she’s beautiful, my love,” he whispered when they’d been alone.

“minisa, i think.” she smiled, “i was thinking of naming her catelyn, but i don’t think my heart can stand it.”

jon nodded, brushing his lips against her cheek. “i think minisa would be a fine substitute.”

she turned her head to gaze at him, “minisa it is then.”

sansa had kissed him then, his hand flush against her jaw as he’d sighed against her lips. all about him went static and all he could comprehend had been sansa’s sweetness and the child the laid in her arms.

he left a few days after.

* * *

jon had visited once or twice a year, some only staying a night and others staying a few weeks. it’d been only six moon turns after his last that sansa had sent a short note back with ghost – _i need you home_ ; he’d been back at winterfell that night.

it’d been a winter’s night, and her rooms had seemed cooler than usual. soon, he’d noticed sansa had had her back turned to him, sitting at her writing desk despite the late hour.

he’d made his way towards her, leaning over her shoulder, breath hot against her throat. “my love,” he whispered.

suddenly, the queen had turned in her seat and wrapped her arms tight about him. the feel of her embrace had been comforting and sweet, but the unusual hard swelling of her stomach had unsettled him. “jon,” she’d whispered against the shell of his ear.

he pulled from her after a long moment, glancing down to her belly, round with child; he placed a hand atop it. “another?” he had asked, his voice barely above a murmur.

she breathed a smile, her eyes welled with tears in her bliss. “i might find myself offended if you thought it anything other.”

abruptly, jon pulled her into another embrace, wrapping her in a fierce grip. he felt her bury her face in the crook of his neck, caressing warm breath against his throat. his cheek had been pressed against her temple, the feeling that had flourished in his chest had been peculiar – that of joy and pride standing civil alongside the sorrow and shame.

“i have missed you,” she said as she dragged herself from his embrace, hand cupping his jaw, thumb stroking his cheekbone. “oh, how i have missed you.”

“sansa…” he leaned into her hold, lips brushing against her palm.

he watched as her ocean eyes inspected his face, her fingers followed her gaze – sweeping across his flesh, cheeks, forehead, the bridge of his nose; he chuckled.

“ _do you find me much changed, your grace_?”

her eyes were suddenly alight with the familiar words, a small smile gracing her full lips. “ _i scarcely recognised you_.” her thumb grazed the scar that split his brow and another that tore the skin of his cheek, she released a slight sigh. “you are so very fickle with your life after all; some days i think you might crawl that window without a hand.”

he breathed a laugh, a laugh lacking in mirth. “am i jaime lannister all of a sudden?”

“never,” she said, “you are far less arrogant than he was, but i do find to be as foolish in love.”

“you think me lacking in it?”

“i think you unlucky in it; your heart seems to be as willing to open as a whore’s legs.”

he chuckled, “should i take offence?”

“perhaps,” she smiled, “or perhaps i should, as it took an awfully long time to open to me.”

he raised a hand to grip her cheek, callous fingers soft against her porcelain skin, “and now it is consumed by you.”

she placed a hand atop his own, “and i am glad of it.”

that night, he’d buried all his thoughts and his worries in her embrace, and in the morning, two small girls had raced into the chambers, one of dark raven tresses and one of crimson curls.

“uncle jon!”

”uncle jon!”

lyarra had crawled atop the high bed as her sister had been lifted into her mother’s strong arms. “you’re back,” the eldest had smiled as he pulled her petite body into a tight embrace. “did you know the gods have put another baby in mama’s belly?”

“i do,” he grinned, “a healthy boy this time, i hope.”

“jon!” sansa scolded, unable to hide her healthy grin, “you mustn’t get her hopes up,” she had turned her head towards her young girl in her arms, “should he, mini?”

“no, mama,” she beamed proudly, as her tiny fingers wrapped about his thumb to catch his eye, “mama said it tisn’t good.”

“i pray to the gods for a brother,” lyarra had whispered, her delicate, little mind imagining only he might hear her, “then he would be king after mama.”

“larra,” sansa groaned to the small girl’s astonishment and jon’s amusement. she rose a hand to pass her fingers through the girl’s tamed locks, “don’t think of that, my dear.”

“it won’t be that bad, little lara,” he feigned a whisper with a grin, “you get to do whatever you want to do and to tell _everyone_ what to do.”

lyarra crossed her little arm over her chest, with a sullen expression. “then i would tell everyone to leave me alone.”

“you can’t do that, larra,” minisa complained, struggling with her words.

“uncle jon said i could do whatever i want, mini, so i can. isn’t that right, uncle jon?”

sansa’s hand had entangled itself in jon’s unruly curls as he’d heard her giggle. “well, jon, you’ve been home only a night you’re already causing trouble.”

jon had chuckled, but before he could speak, lyarra had turned to her mother in her impatience. “uncle jon’s right, isn’t he, mama?”

sansa had stolen her hand from his ink-black mane to run a finger across her daughter’s round jaw, “if you wish it so, my love, then it shall be,” she’d said, her voice so full of delight.

it had been three moons until sansa had birthed their third daughter, and he had leaned beside her as she’d held the girl in her arms, silver-blonde curls atop her reddened head.

“it shall darken with age, my love,” she’d assured, a hand reaching to caress his jaw as he’d propped himself over her so that he might gaze at the child. “lyanne is a stark and all shall know it regardless.”

“i know,” jon had pressed a kiss to her jaw, her crimson locks pulled over one shoulder. “but what if she bares violet eyes beneath those closed lids?”

“jon,” she caught his gaze, “all the lords in the north and the south still believe that you are eddard stark’s bastard; no one shall suspect anything, even if she bears violet eyes and silver hair.”

“love, that is not what i worry for,” he’d been sure his gaze had been spoken all that his mind had bellowed.

“she’s not a targaryen,” sansa had insisted, glancing down at the babe in his arms, “our child shall not go mad; she has been born to an honourable man and a just woman, how could she?”

he had pressed his forehead against her own, his heart alight at the sight of her grin, the daughter deep in her slumber beneath them. “sansa, i never thought i would have this, you– my love, you changed that, i would never want that what brings me joy to bring you bother.”

“my daughters shall never _bother_ me, jon,” she’d reassured, “i am their mother, tis my duty to care for them always.”

jon had left within the week, savouring the last feel of sansa’s warm embrace, lyarra’s shy goodbyes, minisa’s tiny body in his arms and lyanne’s coos. he had wished things could be different; that he could allow himself to stay, but he couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t.

and so, he left.

****

* * *

it had been three years later that she had birthed their fourth daughter, naming her aryana when she’d announced her to the world in those following weeks – once she’d regained her strength. jon had been beside her, standing protectively behind his three daughters, who’d sat upon their thrones – _princesses of winterfell._

“praise be to the gods,” sansa had proclaimed, a crown atop her head, her babe held high in the air.

the words had rung high in his head as he’d laid beside her that night. _the gods had nothing to do with this,_ he’d thought as he’d held her bare body close to his chest. he’d wanted people to know, he’d wanted people to look at his daughters and know they were that of _an honourable man and a just woman_.

to look a lyarra stark – the shy, silent girl of winterfell, the girl who’d been thought mute by half of westeros, the heir to all the north – and to know she was _his_ daughter.

to look at minisa stark – the smiling girl who’d only brought images of summertime to one’s mind, the heir-presumptive to the six kingdoms – and to know she was _his_ daughter.

to look a lyanne stark – the brash and bold, little she-wolf, the girl who all the north had adored – and know she was _his_ daughter.

to look aryana stark – the babe who’d been like clay, to shape and to mould – to know she was _his_ daughter.

at the very least he’d wanted his children to know him as what he was, their father. _had it been too much to ask?_ he’d known it had been, but he’d wanted it, he’d wanted it more than food and drink, more than breath.

sansa had said they were too young to guard such a secret, to understand the vast consequences of it being discovered. _of course,_ she’d been right, but it hadn’t made him want it any less.

“i suppose you shall leave tomorrow?” sansa had asked, her gaze fixed on their entwined fingers.

“would you have me leave?” he’d asked, breath searing against her throat, arms tight about her waist.

sansa had turned to his hold so they might be chest to chest. she’d pulling him into a heated kiss, a hand caught at the nape of his neck. her lips had been soft and warm as he’d sighed under her sweet assault, tongue entangled with his own as he’d shifted onto his back, lifting her to straddle his hips. once she’d pulled away, her forehead had been pressed against his own, teeth pulling at his bottom lip. “i would have you stay with me for all of eternity, and more,” she’d panted against his mouth.

jon’s eyes had shifted between her own before he’d caught her lips between his own, and with one swift movement he’d pushed for them both to sit in their tight embrace.

he’d heard sansa sigh as he’d pressed his lips to her jaw, travelling along the beating of her pulse, nipping at the bone of her clavicle, biting into the meat of her breast. her fingers had buried themselves into his mane of raven curls as he’d taken her teat into his mouth, hearing a muffled cry escape her kiss-swollen lips.

he’d felt her hips push to thrust against his own, feeling himself stiffen beneath her movements, he groaned against her skin. he suckled at her breast until she pulled him into another kiss, a hand falling between them both so she might untie the laces of his breeches.

“sansa,” he breathed, reluctantly pulling from her sweet lips. “tis– tis unwise to bed so soon after a babe,” he met her hungered gaze, “especially one so _tiring_.”

childbirth had been taxing to sansa, many of their daughters almost taking her life so that they might take breath. he hadn’t wanted to be so rough with her when she had been so very delicate.

she had pulled at the strings regardless. “i am not made of glass, husband,” she whispered as she pressed a hand to his cock, seeming to relish in his slight hiss, “you of all people should know, _i shall not break_.”

it’d seemed more of a proclamation than an assurance, but he hadn’t cared. he clung to her so hard his knuckles shun white as they’d moved against one and other, she’d been warm and soft with all her faultless flaws.

he’d wished things could be different.

he’d _wanted_ things to be different.

and when he’d held his daughters within the stronghold of his arms that next morning, the children that he would protect with his life, he’d felt his heart break in two for a final time. he’d held little lyarra close to him as she’d buried her head in his chest, grinned to the gleeful minisa as she’d gifted him a small piece of embroidered cloth and a smile, exchanged biting wit with the headstrong lyanne, running his hand through her silver-blonde curls as she’d clung to him. he’d placed a kiss to the top of aryana’s delicate, little head, relishing in her soft giggle as she’d grasped at raven ringlets of hair. and, he’d wrapping his arms about sansa and clutched at her so tight his muscles ached, he’d savoured the feel of her tully hair caught between his fingertips, cherished the scent of sweet _home_ that radiated from her.

but, jon never looked back when he passed the gates of winterfell.

* * *

sara had been born three years after that, a babe so full of laughter and glee that it’d even brought a smile to jon on his sternest of days. lyarra had been eight by then, tall and thin with raven tresses falling to her waist. minisa, seven, with _kissed-by-fire_ ringlets about her shoulders and her ice-blue eyes wide with innocence. lyanne, five, had been graced with wit and courage, fair hair and eyes as blue and clear as a summer-sky. aryana was only in her second year, a girl he knew little but one he’d heard much about.

even beyond the wall, he’d heard stories of the _troubled_ princess – a girl prone to screaming during the night, claiming to see swift visions of terrible horrors, monsters that might only match maegor the cruel. sansa had written to him scarcely regarding their aryana, claiming _nothing had been too unusual._

sara had been only a week old when he’d come to visit – war between the wildlings so frequent and brutal he hadn’t the time to come any sooner. the babe had been the very image of catelyn tully, with dark crimson curls and river-blue eyes, but when he’d held her in his arms for the first time, he hadn’t though of _lady stark_ ; only his heart – fat with love.

“i hope you don’t mind; i thought sara was a pretty name,” sansa had said as she’d leaned her head against his shoulder, waiting the babe lay gladly in his arms.

he turned his head and pressed a kissed to her forehead, “tis a perfect name, my love.”

he’d treasured her small smile.

“i like it too,” minisa commented as she’d leaned over to gaze at the babe.

“easy to remember, i suppose,” lyarra agreed, standing at her mother’s side.

lyanne sat with her baby-sister on the rug, attempting to braid the girl’s long, raven wave as aryana had sat, dozing. “i don’t, tisn’t it too…not princess-y?”

sansa had laughed, beckoning her daughter to her side, “what do you mean, my darling?”

lyanne had abandoned her little sister and come running to her mother’s side. “i thought princess’ names had to be important.”

“don’t you know what sara means, lyanne?” lyarra had asked, seemingly irritated.

“what?”

she sighed, “it means _princess_.”

“oh.”

jon had laughed, watching as she babe giggled and wriggled in his arms as he ran a finger along the bridge of her button of a nose. “how do you know that, larra?” he’d asked.

the young princess had been eager to reply, but minisa had spoken first. “she spends hours in the library, i think she’s read every book twice by now.”

lyarra had let out a slight sigh, “yes, perhaps.”

he’d sat beside sansa at the feast, their children sat about them. the lords of the north had surrounded them, he’d felt their eyes on him, heard their hushed whispered; he’d grown used to their judgement. sansa’s hand had been tight about his, hidden beneath the safety of the table, as she’d sipped at her wine.

he turned his head and had seen lyarra sitting silently, her food untouched, her head down, minisa whispering in her ear. beneath the veil of her raven tresses, he’d watched as she’d grinned, muttering a swift response.

he smiled at the sight, watching the two giggle shyly to one and other – as robb and he once had, as sansa and arya should have. it’d been lit a warm, tender flame in his chest with the–

a spine-chilling screech had pierced his skull.

the blazing flame had turned to cinders as he’d launched to his feet.

aryana had hurled herself from her large seat. tears had marred her flush cheeks. stew spilt about her as she’d hurried away from the table. terror had soiled her face. grey eyes blown wide. mouth gushing with blood-curdling shrieks.

jon had rushed to the girl’s side and had caught her in his arms, sansa swiftly beside him. “what’s the matter?” he’d asked as she’d buried her slight face in his strong chest.

as soon as they’d began, the screams and cries as stopped.

the room silent.

jon had looked at sansa, and sansa had looked at jon.

“she has…hallucinations,” she’d explained that night. “they’re over as soon as they begin, sam says tis nothing too much worry over.”

“ _hallucinations_?” he raised his head from where it’d laid, buried in its hands. “you didn’t tell me?”

she kneeled before him, “i didn’t want to worry you, they only began a few moon turns ago, i–”

“ _a few moon turns ago_?” he’d repeated, as though he couldn’t believe the words to be true. he rose from where he sat, moving past her in his astonishment. “sansa, tis my right to be worried, i am their father.”

the queen had merely sighed as she’d stood, turning about to face him.

“i need to know these things, sansa.”

“you would know these things if you were ever here,” she’d suddenly hissed.

“sansa…”

“it is true!” she’d yelled, frustrated tears swelling in her eyes. “twice a year, i cannot– i am not just yours, i am not just their mother. i am the queen!”

he stood and watched as she wept. how he’d watched to reach out a wipe the tears from her porcelain cheeks, but he’d known it’d only cause her anger to burn his callous fingertips.

“i am trying, jon, i am _really_ trying. i am trying to rule a kingdom, _alone_. i am trying to raise five children, _alone_. i am fending off dothraki savages and wildling brutes, _alone_. so, _i am so sorry_ if i could not find the time to inform _you_ that i am also tending to _our_ troubled daughter, _alone._ ”

jon sighed, “you know–”

“if i have to hear for the thousandth time that you _cannot stay_ , i _will_ go mad!” her voice had been biting, sinking into his flesh and tearing at his heart.

she’d walked past him, her body carving through the air like steel. he’d seen her cheeks stained with tears, her eyes shot a crimson red.

there had been a heavy silence pass over their heads. their backs had been turned as she’d gazed out the window, as he’d stood with his head in his hands.

“ _i’m sorry_ ,” he finally said.

he’d strode from the room, leaving the room without a spare glance her way. it’d been a painful last step into the hall, leaning against the stone wall as the door swung closed. “coward!” a last biting sound as the tears swelled in his grey eyes.

he’d been gone by morning.

* * *

a year and a thousand letters had passed through the wall, some baring the stark seal and some not, some seeming endless and some a word long, some sweet and some cold.

none had been returned.

he known it’d been wrong to ignore sansa, to play as if he were blameless in all this. _he’d known._

half of him had thought it’d be better to never return to winterfell. sansa would never be truly content unless he’d stay by her side, _he knew that._ he thought it cruel to play such a punishing game with her any longer – no matter how much it’d hurt him.

the other half thought him cruel for even conceiving of such a thought – to abandon her after all that had happened.

it all had been cruel.

the world had been cruel.

he only thought that, after all that had happened, he’d had learned that.

jon had sat in the godswood on a late winter’s eve, hidden in the crook of the grand weirdwood tree. a dagger spinning between his fingertips, his mind racing.

_should i leave?_

he’d come this far, but should he go in?

“i normally hide in there too,” a high voice spoke, strangely void of emotion.

he glanced up and his daughter, little lyarra, stood before him, clad in a heavy woollen nightgown, a pure a white as the snow surrounding her feet. “i’m not hiding.”

she hummed, a short and suspicious sound. “then what are you doing, uncle jon?”

“i’m praying,” he’d bluffed.

he was done was all that.

“with a dagger?” she’d returned – her mouth had seemingly had no effect on her face as a whole, as though they’d been completely separate.

jon stood, striding hesitantly towards the girl. “what are you doing out of bed so late?”

“what are you doing here?” she retorted. “mother thought you dead.”

“how is she?”

_was she woeful?_

“horrible,” lyarra answered, matter-of-factly, staring up at him with her piercing blue eyes. “she scarcely leaves her rooms.”

“she’s unhappy?”

the girl nodded, “she’s angry.”

his daughter’s ice gaze had been cold, seeming beyond her years. they’d appeared to lack thought but had been _all too_ knowing all at once.

“you _should_ go in,” she said, as though she’d heard his thoughts. “she’ll be happy to see you.”

and, so he had.

he found himself outside the queen’s chambers. he’d tried to push through the door, but the lock had on cried out in defiance. he’d knocked at the door – once, twice, thrice; there’d been no answer.

“sansa…” he’d said upon the fourth. “my love, open the door,” he’d said at the fifth. “ _please_.”

there’d been a slight pause, before the door had crept open, leaving it ever so slightly ajar.

hesitantly, he’d entered through the slender crack in the threshold, being sure to close the door behind him. “lock it,” he’d heard the queen order, her back turned to him as she’d moved towards her desk.

her voice had been strong, more powerful then the last her saw her, but there’d been a slight shake that hadn’t been there before.

_had something happened?_

“so, you’re back?” she’d asked when he had, voice as emotionless as lyarra’s had been.

“i wanted to see you,” he’d said, uncertainly coming to stand at her behind. her profile had been as he’d remembered, perfect and stoic.

“it’s been a year,” she said, unmoving as he brought a hand to trace her jaw.

“i know,” voice a low whisper, her breathed into her ear. “you must forgive me.”

“and what if i don’t?”

“you must,” he insisted, a hand coming to wrap about the nape of her neck, forehead coming to lean against her tensed temple. “sansa, _you must_.”

in spite of her cold demeanour, she hadn’t moved away when he’d encircled an arm about her slight waist, nor had she moved away when he’d pulled her to his chest – a little of him thinking _(or perhaps hoping)_ she might have even leaned into him. her body had been as warm as he’d remembered, her skin as soft and her hair as red.

“sansa, look at me.”

she remained unmoving.

“ _sansa, look at me_ ,” he’d raised a finger to her jaw. “please.”

she’d allowed him to turn her head.

her face had been that of the woman he loved. her skin was a pale ivory, her eyes like two piercing sapphires, her lips two pretty, pink rose petals. then his eyes moved towards the irate crimson of her left cheek.

a horrible gash had run from the highpoint of her cheekbone to the line of her throat. the wound had been healing, young enough to be painful by touch, deep enough to scar once completely mended.

“sansa, you didn’t–” he said, his body paralyzed. “what…?”

“a serving boy attacked aryana late at night, said she was a curse upon the world, sent by the gods to punish us all.”

rage and sorrow boiled in his throat. “he tried to kill her?”

she nodded. “i stopped him.”

“where were the guards?”

she turned her head, her chin high as she’d stared into the air, “dead now.”

she’d been so hard now, _truly steel._ “i should have been here…” he’d said, absentmindedly.

suddenly, her head turned back towards him. “yes, you should have.” she’d spit as she’d ripped from his hold. he watched her as she’d strode away from him, her direct thoughtless, each stride meaningful – each taking her further away from him.

there’d been a long and heavy silence, the weight of the air hanging over them like stone. “do you resent me?”

_do you hate me?_

there was another agonisingly lengthy silence, her back turned to him as he stood in expectation. sansa’s chin fell and her head with it, a long sigh escaping her lips. “no,” she said, and slowly veered to face him. “ _no_ , not you.”

jon released a strained breath he hadn’t known he’d been imprisoning in his throat.

“i resent _this_.” she slowly moved towards him, “i resent that i cannot see you every day, i resent that i must lie to my own children, i resent that you weren’t here, i resent that you didn’t write for _a year_ , and so much more.” she said as she’d stood before him, “but, i don’t resent _you_ ; i could never resent you.”

he hadn’t touched her – she stood so close, but _he hadn’t touched her_.

that hadn’t pleased her.

“have you nothing to say?” she said, her voice wrenched.

“sansa…”

it was then that she’d struck him, a painless assault stealing across his leather-bound chest. “stop!” she’d yelled. “you _always_ say my name, whenever i want you to fight back, you just say my name and i– i just fucking melt!”

another strike against his chest, and then another, and then another. he’d easily fended off her attacks.

each collide of her fists with his chest had caused his heart to bleed.

“fight back!” she bellowed, desperate as tears streamed down her cheeks. “where is your honour? where is your decency?” the pounding of her fists had become harder as he’d repelled her assaults with more force, hands latching onto her jaw, knuckles a stark white with the strength. “where is your love for me?” she wept as he pressed his mouth to hers.

she cried out with steady breaths as he pushed a kiss on her. between her weak whimpers, she’d returned the press of his lips, wrapping a hand about the nape of his neck to hold him to her.

it was a kiss as gentle a wolf’s maul.

it was a kiss as cruel as a lady’s tender touch.

“i love you. i love you more than i knew i could love anything.” he confessed as he leaned away. “i would stay if i could let myself but it’s just too much. i want to, sansa, i fucking want to. but i can’t!”

she ripped from his embrace then, pushing him from her, and he’d let her. “why!” she screamed. “why can’t you just– you just…be with me!”

“i just can’t!”

sansa lifted her finger to him, her face contorted with anger and spite. “that is a pitiful excuse and you know it!” she’d accused, “you care so little for your life. every time you leave these gates, no one knows what might happen to you, no matter how much you assure anyone of your safety. i fear for you, and i cannot do that anymore.”

her voice was strained and pained as she took a mouthful of air, the knife that stayed lodged in his heart twisted with every sound.

“jon, if you leave here again, i would never forgive you.” she said with a sniffle, attempting to stifle her tears. “you come to the gates; you’ll be sent away. you write to me, i will burn the letter. you die and i will only hate you.”

their slight pants were the sounds to be heard for a long moment.

his mind was the most brutal of battlegrounds. no part of him wanted sansa to hate him, no part of him wanted to never return. he longed to be able to tell her that he would stay, he longed to be able to be everything she wanted him to be.

but, after everything.

after death.

after the battle of the bastards.

after daenerys.

after this near-decade.

after _fucking_ everything, he still couldn’t find the will to just _stay._

it _was_ a pitiful excuse, to have none at all. sansa had every right to hate him; he’d taken and taken and taken all that’d wanted and whenever he’d wanted, and left her alone, with nothing. he may have given her five daughters but had none of the devotion to raise those children; left her undefended, alone and surrounded by strangers with daggers in their smiles.

she’d paid the price for all his selfishness, all his failures.

_she had every right to hate him._

“i don’t want to leave,” he murmured, filling the empty silence with full truths. “i thought i would be able to forget it all by now, i would be able to stay here with you and our girls, and not know that i am undeserving.”

sansa said nothing, only stared at him with tears in her eyes.

but her expression said all that her mouth could not.

_you are deserving._

“i love you, you mustn’t forget it,” he professed, stepping towards her. “i have never wanted to bring you hurt, i did everything you asked of me, i would do anything you asked of me. _but, i can’t stay_.”

sansa’s jaw tensed, wiping a tear from her marred cheek. “then, leave.”

* * *


End file.
